


Firestarter

by WittyWerewolf



Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WittyWerewolf/pseuds/WittyWerewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fleshing out the opening scene from 2x10 Yousaf, no significant spoilers. </p>
<p>“Hey.” Even I’m aware that my voice sounds off, and I look away before I can see her reaction, shaking my head. “I didn't mean to wake you.” My eyes drift up to her again, and the expression of concern on her face is like a hot knife pressing against my skin, threatening to gut me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firestarter

I let myself in quietly, so silently that no one – save her – would notice. Slowly turning the key in the lock, painstakingly twisting the doorknob, letting the door fall shut at just the right speed to avoid any squealing hinges. I know where the squeaky floorboards are, how lightly to tread. I all but collapse into my usual chair at the kitchen table and pull off my gloves, finger by finger. I hold them for a moment, dangling, and fold them over, stuffing them into my coat pocket. The motions are robotic at best. I’ve long since surpassed being angry, but I find myself wishing I was. It would be better than this, wouldn’t it? I can’t summon an ounce of interest or joy or desire. There’s nothing where I’m sure there had been something not long ago. I scrub my face with my hands, knowing I should feel a twinge at the smell of leather, a reminder of having come entirely unhinged. A failed mission. Going off-piste. Instead I graze my fingers over growing scruff, eyes fixed on the table but unseeing. 

I hear her coming down the stairs and crossing the living room, but I don’t look up. Something deep in my gut doesn’t want to see her. It’s not an emotion, not remotely a thought, but it’s enough to keep my gaze down. When she steps into the kitchen, though, I can’t help myself. She’s looking at me with an expression on her face that I’ve never seen before. She looks- almost shy. I quickly flick my eyes down and up again. I’m aware, distantly, that she looks good, if tired. “Hi” Her voice is soft – the kids are asleep upstairs – but it’s enough to spur me to respond.

“Hey.” Even I’m aware that my voice sounds off, and I look away before I can see her reaction, shaking my head. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” My eyes drift up to her again, and the look of concern on her face is like a hot knife pressing against my skin, threatening to gut me.

“No, I-” She seems so uncharacteristically nervous, taking a tentative step towards me and tucking her hair behind her ear before giving me a tiny smile. “I wasn’t really sleeping.” I’m not sure I’ve seen this side of her before. I’ve seen her concerned for my welfare in a life or death situation, I’ve seen her tentatively place her hand over mine out of worry, but never quite this. Whatever this is, it’s kindling something inside me, something that makes my throat tighten and my breathing speed up. “You hungry?” she asks, and I want to reply, but all I can manage is a shaky breath. I look away for a moment, fighting the tightness in my throat and the sudden rapidity to my pulse. When I look back, I give her the barest of smiles, hoping it conveys my ‘yes, please, thank you’ and the untold gratitude behind it. She smiles back, but the crinkle of worry remains in her brow as she crosses to the refrigerator. 

I look back at my hands, listening as Elizabeth gets things out of the fridge, setting them on the counter. I’m idly twisting my wedding ring when an idea strikes me, welling up into something approaching a genuine desire for the first time since we’d finished our mission. I shift, clearing my throat. “I want to talk to Paige...” I trail off when I hear her stop moving and turn to face me, and I look up to meet her gaze. She looks surprised, and somehow that almost stings. Still twisting my ring, I swallow and continue. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

I watch as she hesitates, glancing down to get a fork out of the drawer she’s opened. When she looks back, she shakes her head, her expression of concern returning. “No…” She trails off, looking away as she sets down the bowl and fork. “You weren’t wrong. She was disrespecting us.” I watch her as she unwraps the butter and gives me a brief, reassuring glance. “I made her clean the kitchen, mop the floor.” Now I find myself surprised. At any other time I might object, tell her that was going too far, that no one else seems to do that to their kids, but right now it kindles an odd feeling of warmth in my chest. A reminder of support. Again I’m unable to muster words as she turns to look at me, her hand drifting across her plush black robe. For a moment we just watch each other, unmoving. 

When she moves she walks towards me purposefully, observant gaze on my face at all times. “Come here,” she says, voice soft, as she reaches out to grasp the collar of my jacket. “Take this off.” From here I can smell her, and she’s captivating, absorbing my attention like a black hole. I stand as she slides the coat off my shoulders and down my arms, pausing to run her hand down my side. I can’t take my eyes off her. She turns and folds my jacket, setting it down on another chair. The care she takes with every little action makes my mouth run dry. Slowly I sink back down into my chair and she turns back to me. My gaze remains on her face, looking up at her now, and she closes her eyes for a moment, taking a breath. When she opens them again, she meets my continued, unblinking scrutiny. I want something, but I can’t verbalize it, can’t even pin down what it is.

Elizabeth’s hands rise to my face, cupping and caressing my jaw. She looks me over as she slides her hands down to my neck, crossing rough stubble. “You look tired.” Tired is as good a word as any to describe this bone-deep emptiness, this lack of sensation that she seems to be rubbing away from my skin with each stroke. Her hands drift along my shoulders and back up to my face, taking a moment to look over me again before pulling me gently to her chest. She doesn’t flinch away from the chill that’s still clinging to my skin and I feel her warmth diffuse through me, hear the distant thud of her heartbeat reverberating in my skull. I feel as though I haven’t blinked in a month, eyes stuck open to watch my life fall out of my control, and I finally let them slide shut. Her hand at the base of my neck is reassuring, comforting, warm, safe. The way she sways ever so slightly reminds me of nights taking care of a crying Paige, both of us equally lost and confused as brand new parents. 

When she pulls back to carefully assess me again, it’s jarring, a sudden loss of warmth from my very core. It’s enough to force a shaky breath out of me, and her expression grows all the more concerned. I want to reassure her, and more than anything, I need that heat back. I reach up to caress her face as she had mine, and I tuck her hair behind her ear. She tilts her head into my touch as I continue to stroke her hair. We’re assessing each other now, asking the silent questions we almost never vocalize. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘What do you need?’ I’m still unsure of the answer to the former, but I know what I need. My hand settles at the back of her neck, mirroring her earlier position, and I gently pull her towards me. She knows exactly what I’m asking for, and her lips meet mine, feather-soft. 

The kiss is long and lingering, her lips so perfect where I’m sure mine are chapped, a rush of heat suffusing me when she reaches up to cup my face again. When we reluctantly break apart, the emotion on her face is plain. She isn’t one for crying, but there’s a shine in her eyes that hints at it. Something inside me cracks, seeing her close to tears out of worry for me. 

Just me. 

Abruptly we’re kissing again, my hand still in her hair and hers on my cheek, and I’m unsure as to who moved first. I feel her tongue brush against my bottom lip as she edges closer, and I wrap an arm around her waist in response. She’s small but so strong, hard muscles of her back and stomach as evidence. I can’t help but brush my thumb over where her scar is, small and fading. I give her lip the barest of scrapes with my teeth – I know she likes that, how it makes her shiver – and she shifts, artfully moving to straddle me without breaking our increasingly heated kiss. 

She’s incredibly warm, her mouth and tongue hot like brands against mine. I want more of that heat, her incandescent skin. I move to slide off her robe and she shrugs to help me, beautiful shoulders gradually exposed. She breaks the kiss with distinct reluctance, pulling away slowly, and we each push a side of her robe down and off. Her eyes are locked with mine, and in this light the green is more obvious, more striking. She rocks against me ever so slightly, and I twine my hand in her hair, just this side of rough. She gasps softly – she loves what little roughness I’m willing to give – and moves against me again. Her breathing is ragged, and I’m sure mine is as well. Some detached, analytical piece of my brain is observing the way she’s flushed, how her pupils are dilated. The rest of me is consumed by her heat, her bare thighs on either side of my legs, her nightdress riding up, her tongue ghosting over her lips. We stay there, still, watching each other for a long moment.

The growing warmth in my chest flickers into flame as I pull her to me again. I kiss her, hard, and she responds with equal fervor, tongue battling mine in an instant. I’m dimly aware that I can _feel_ again, have genuine desires. But here, now, she is all I want. All I can think about. I brush her hair away from her neck and kiss my way down, driven on by her every gasp. I place a bite at the juncture of her neck and shoulder and she moans, arching into me. Her hands slide under my shirt, dragging it up, and I lean back so she can pull it off. She runs her hands across my chest and up to my shoulders, using me as leverage as she rolls her hips against mine. I want to growl, say her name, tell her how much I want her – but the kids are still upstairs. I hold back.

Just.

Her robe and my shirt are pooled on the floor where they fell, and I very much want her nightgown to join them. I return my attentions to where I’d bitten her neck, giving it another small nip before laving over the mark with my tongue. Nothing a little makeup or a turtleneck won’t hide until it fades. I slide my hands down her sides, making her hum in pleasure as she turns to kiss the spot at the corner of my jaw that only she is familiar with. When I reach the bottom of her nightgown, I hook my thumbs in the material to push it up and she arches against me completely, her breasts brushing against my chest. Perhaps she does so to help me get it off of her, or perhaps she simply enjoys the groan it produces. 

Either way, I slip her nightgown up and off, my rough, calloused hands across her smooth skin. She’s naked now, and I’m aware our positions are uneven. I’m still in jeans and boots, and she apparently hadn’t even bothered with underwear. My mouth goes a little dry at the thought. It’s all I can do to take her in; the way her hair frames her face, her pert breasts, her athletic build, the little smirk she always wears when she has me right where she wants me. I don’t think I’ll ever cease to find her incredible. She trails her fingers along my jaw in a leisurely fashion and I let out a shaky breath. She leans forward agonizingly slowly, fingers drifting down my neck, across my chest, coming to rest on my belt buckle. When she finally kisses me, it’s the softest brush of lips, more a query than a kiss. When I kiss her back with all of my earlier fervor, she undoes my belt swiftly and deftly. For once, my mind doesn’t drift to how practiced she is at that, how well trained. Instead I find myself kissing along her throat again, nipping the thin skin over her collarbone, being unable to resist leaving little bites and hickies here and there. She answers every bite with a gasp, her hand shaking as she unbuttons my jeans. 

Soon my jeans are undone, my boxers shoved down my hips, and by this point we’re beyond questions. She pushes herself up on my shoulders and I lift her by her hips. We’ve always worked well together. She sinks down on me so slowly that it’s torturous. I bury my face in her hair as she threads her fingers through mine, her left hand tucked against my right. When she finally moves again it’s with a slow, undulating rhythm that makes me groan. I feel her smile against my cheek, almost smug, and I can’t help but smile myself. It’s funny how natural it feels, even after so long. A proper smile, unbidden. 

I tilt my hips and hit just the right spot inside her to make her breathing judder to a stop for a moment, muscles clenching around me. She sucks in a shuddering breath and breathes out my name. I can’t resist doing that again, fingertips of my free hand undoubtedly leaving marks on the small of her back as I thrust up, harder. She meets me with a roll of her hips on each stroke, perfectly in sync. With one last kiss on her collarbone, I lean back so that I can watch her face. Her eyes flick up to meet mine and she gives my hand a light squeeze. She knows I like to watch her, and she me. There is something intensely personal about her brand of eye contact, something which makes me feel as though I’m baring my soul to her, as though she knows all of the things I wish I could tell her. 

Our pace quickens again, spurred on by the delicious flush across her cheeks, the way her breasts bounce with every gasping breath. She runs a fingertip up my spine and I tangle my free hand in her thick hair. She rolls her hips in a slow, tantalizing circle and I growl low in my throat in a way that makes her shiver. This isn’t practiced or trained for, this is how well she knows me, and I her. Sweat is starting to prickle at the back of my neck as she rests her hand there, and I can tell she’s getting close. I watch her bite her lip, arch her back, and whimper – but her eyes stay open. Finally, with one last perfect cant of my hips, she pulls me towards her. Our foreheads touch and she steals a quick, breathless kiss. Her eyes slide shut and so do mine. My free hand, previously roaming, settles at her hip. 

She squeezes my hand hard when she comes, silencing a moan in another desperate kiss. I’m not far behind and I open my eyes to look at her. It takes a moment, but she looks back. I think it’s the green that does me in. Three hard snaps of my hips and I’m right there with her, coming hard and squeezing her hand in mine.

She collapses against me as we finally let go of each other’s hands. I wrap an arm around her waist, slowly tracing meaningless patterns across her back. She runs her fingers through my hair, toying idly with the curls. We simply sit there, decompressing, for a long while. 

Finally she sighs ever so softly, breath puffing out against my neck, and murmurs, “We should go to bed.” I hum in agreement. It would be ill-advised to fall asleep here, as much as I desperately want to. With her tucked against me, I’m comfortable. Content.

-

Eventually, she leads me up the stairs by the hand, occasionally glancing back with a bemused smile. We’re sort of dressed, clothing gathered up from the floor. My shirt is flung haphazardly over my shoulder, my jeans zipped but not buttoned. She’s naked under her plush robe, nightgown held in her hand that isn’t clutched in mine. If I was tired before, I’m exhausted now. 

The way the lines of worry are gone from her face gives me the energy to get up the stairs. I may be exhausted, but the empty spaces from earlier tonight have been filled. She guides me to our bed, and I sit on the edge in what is more of a controlled collapse than anything intentional. She strokes the side of my face and I find myself looking up at her for the second time tonight. This time she just smiles, running her thumb over my cheekbone before she draws away. I start to lean down to take my boots off, but she stops me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Let me,” she says, and I can’t argue with the look in her eyes. She kneels and begins to carefully unlace my boots. I look on in wonderment as she slips them both off, followed by my socks. She straightens and hooks a finger in a belt loop on my jeans. “These too,” she says, smiling up at me. Wordless, I lift my hips and push them down as she tugs on the belt loop. She collects my clothes and boots and stands, looking at me with a tenderness which continues to render me speechless. With one finger, she pushes me to the bed. My eyes close before my head hits the pillow. I listen to her cross to the closet, put my clothes in the hamper, shut the closet door. 

When she falls into bed beside me, she hasn’t put the nightgown back on. She places a hand on my chest and I reach out to cradle her to me. She rests her head just below mine, tucked against my chin, and I settle my hand on her stomach just over her scar. Her skin is ablaze with warmth everywhere we’re touching.

For the first time tonight, I am not cold.

**Author's Note:**

> I hardly ever write in first person, so this was good fun. Kindly excuse any britishisms. I've been an ex-pat for a long time, but some things stick with you.


End file.
